


Absence Makes the Holes Grow Wider

by Batwynn



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Derek's not present for most of it, Happy Ending, Hurt Stiles, M/M, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, POV Stiles, Post-Nogitsune Stiles Stilinski, Scott is a Bad Friend, Scott's not horrible, Stiles Has Issues, Stiles Leaves Beacon Hills, Stiles is a unreliable narrator, Stiles-centric, This is between Stiles and Scott mostly, but not the best, or understand, possible, there's some things he doesn't know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-22
Updated: 2016-11-22
Packaged: 2018-09-01 10:05:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8620306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batwynn/pseuds/Batwynn
Summary: 'Scott, I want you to know that this isn’t about you. I know, this is kind of a weird way to start a letter to you, but that’s just how it is, buddy.This isn’t about you.' Stiles breathes in deeply, and watches a seagull silently drift above him. The cold air is sharp in his chest, but it feels like freedom and the right choice.He breathes out and it doesn’t hurt anymore.Yeah, he made the right choice.





	

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr fic]

_Scott, I want you to know that this isn’t about you. I know, this is kind of a weird way to start a letter to you, but that’s just how it is, buddy._

_This isn’t about you._

  
Stiles breathes in deeply, and watches a seagull silently drift above him. The cold air is sharp in his chest, but it feels like freedom and _the right choice_.

He breathes out and it doesn’t hurt anymore.

 

Yeah, he made the right choice.

 

* * *

 

“—Two broken fingers, what looks like a hairline fracture on his collarbone, a puncture wound in his lower abdomen that may—”

Stiles looses the thread for a little while.

“—large intestine, a small contusion—”

Nah. Dark nothingness is better than listening to that whiny voice. Who becomes a doctor when they sound like a Muppet on helium?

Stiles chooses to fall unconscious again. He already knows what the Nogitsune did to his body, anyway.

 

* * *

 

When the pack notices that something’s wrong, Stiles is in the middle of class.

It’s another pack—sort of, more like a group of omegas—and they’ve got these _‘pets’_ with a ton of teeth that they keep on leash until they feel like taking them out for walkies and killing people. Which is just not cool. You don’t do that, Beacon Hills Pack don’t like that. No sir.

Anyway, by the time class ends and he checks his phone, the urgent texts for him to 'get his ass over there’ have stopped, and everyone’s moved on to calling a pack meeting and licking their wounds.

“We missed it,” he sighs when Scott suddenly appears outside his classroom. The bell rang ten minutes ago, but Stiles was held back for a mild warning about taking notes on _other classes_ during English. He’s honestly a little surprised that Scott waited for him, which says a lot about their friendship these days.

It’s not until they begin to weave their way through the mass exodus of students that he realizes that Scott never answered him. Not a word about missing some kind of pack show down with members of their pack who _aren’t_ in high school anymore because they’ve been officially marked as 'dead’. There’s no sighs of disappointment or any Good Alpha Posturing. Scott is honestly never this quiet.

Stiles turns around in the middle of the hall, and doesn’t miss the flash of guilt that crosses his friend’s face. “Unless… it was just me… who missed it… _seriously_ , Scott?!”

“I’m sorry!” Scott whines, “I got an alert just as I was walking into class, so I kind of passed it off as some stomach thing and, um, ran.”

“Alert? What alert?” Stiles narrows his eyes. Since when did they have alerts? He scowls at his friend, before turning sharply to start elbowing his way past a group guys bickering about body hair in front of his locker. “Actually, the more important question is why did you even come back—no, actually, why were they texting me to—” Stiles grits his teeth in frustration. “No, let’s start with _why didn’t you come get me in the first place_?”

Scott has more trouble than he does getting past the guys yelling about 'manscaping’, but Stiles doesn’t feel like waiting anymore. He knows the answer, he knows why Scott came all the way back to the school after a werewolfy battle. The knowledge makes his head throb, and his hands shake with anger.

Because Scott has slapped a huge warning label on him.

**CAUTION! FRAGILE!**

Because Scott was going to fucking _pretend_ he wasn’t out there fighting without him, all to 'protect’ Stiles’ precious feelings. He was going to _lie_ , and make everyone else lie for him.  
  
By the time Scott makes it through the group, protests on his lips, Stiles has already reached his locker and started on the combination.

“Stiles—”

“Save it,” he snaps, his fingers flying over the lock and yanking his locker open with more force than necessary. For once, his books don’t come flying out at him. But that’s what happens when you’re compelled to organize them into perfect lines based on height and the order of his classes. Stiles mutters a curse under his breath, and starts pulling out what he needs.

“I just didn’t want—”

_Wait, does he need his advanced biology book for that stupid assignment, or does he know enough to wing it? What kind of advanced class has work sheets, anyway?_

“—to get hurt.”

“I said save it.”

“You know how dangerous it is!” Scott continues, appearing at his elbow with some of his more intense Puppy Eyes. “After everything that happened, I thought you’d understand.”

_Is it time to return Lydia’s Latin dictionary yet? She said he had a week—actually…_

“Was Lydia there?” He blurts out, his grip tightening on the dictionary. He doesn’t need to watch Scott’s face to feel that guilt bubbling back to the surface again. He knows the answer. God dammit, he knows.

“She… might have been. We needed her help with subduing them, you know how good she’s getting with the scream thing.”

The book creaks under his fingers before he turns, and slams it into Scott’s chest. “Here. She wants it back, you can give it to her at the pack meeting.”

“Wha—Stiles, come on!” Scott stammers, reaching out to grab him and nearly dropping the book. “Don’t take this out on everyone, I was the one who told them to stop texting you. So don't—”

“Don’t tell me what to fucking do, Scott,” Stiles snarls, tearing his arm from Scott’s grip and slamming his locker closed. He doesn’t bother paying attention to the teaching calling out for him to treat school property better, or even try hiding how pissed he is. He doesn’t care if that group of hairy idiots are staring at him like his anger is _funny_.

“Stiles,” Scott warns, his eyes growing sharp. “Please don’t start this again.”

“I’m done talking about this,” Stiles says, and because the first thing his friend does in the face of his anger is start to get angry himself, Stiles plasters on his best fake smile, and tells him, “I hope you have a _wonderful_ pack meeting without me.”

It’s stupid and petty, but he leaves knowing damn well that Scott heard the lie.

 

* * *

 

  
After the Nogitsune, It took Stiles a long time to heal physically, and mentally… well, he’s not there yet. He pushed himself, of course, because the pack gets no breaks and Derek was seriously missing. Regardless of the cast he was supposed to be wearing, or the bandages he was supposed to change daily, Stiles went to Mexico and engaged in shit that probably set his healing back weeks. By the time everything finally healed up, they were facing yet another problem and getting more hurt. Which is just how things are.

And after Derek nearly died and Peter actually did, they had about two months of calm that Stiles didn’t handle so well. Derek left them, the danger was mostly gone, and the 'pack’ was nothing more than a scattering of teens all trying to be actual teens, instead of monster hunters.

Stiles, though, comes to realize that he just can’t _do_ teenager anymore. He promptly, and quietly, freaks the fuck out all by himself.

Again, physical health, not so bad. Mental health, who the fuck knows?

He starts getting… picky about things. The mess in his room becomes unbearable. The disorganization of his desk gives him a panic attack. The scattering of facts across ten different notebooks—that usually works well for him—makes his heart race and his hands sweat and it’s so frustrating, but he can’t seem to make it stop.

He needs things to be organized, he needs _control_.

Which, he figures out, might be a small side effect of losing complete control of his body and life and, you know, killing people.

  
But, whatever, it’s not that bad. He can deal with it.

 

* * *

 

  
Stiles goes home after his disappointing argument with Scott, tosses his bag to the side, pops his laptop open, and tucks his entire body into his computer chair. His dad’s at work—the note said an emergency, which means it’s probably werewolf showdown related—and Stiles hasn’t needed to cook dinner for a while now. The sheriff decided it was time Stiles stopped taking care of him, since he was 'so damn busy taking care of everybody.’

It was meant to be helpful, but it sort of just left another hole.

Stiles is full of holes these days, like the gunshot wound Stiles almost had a dozen times already. Every muzzle pressed to his skull, every trigger that never got pulled.

His dad’s pulled a trigger—and god, Stiles _knows_ he didn’t mean to, but he’s pulled away and made this distance between them in the name of giving Stiles space. What he doesn’t seem to understand, is that he’s turned into that aunt who gives everyone fruitcake every Christmas, and it doesn’t matter what people _want_ , she’s set in her decision.

You’re going to get fruit cake whether you like it or not.

  
Stiles opens up Skype, and stares at the empty 'online’ category. He’s sick of fucking space. If everyone gives him space, who’s he left with? No one, that’s who.

He scrolls down and finds a few people labeled 'busy’, like Lydia, Boyd, and Erica. They’re probably already at the pack meeting, and Liam is always marked busy no matter what he’s doing. Stiles doesn’t have Mason on his list, which isn’t intentional he just forgets to ask for Skype names when they’re talking supernatural business. Danny is usually offline all the time, but secretly online for whatever reason. Stiles actually considers sending him a message before he remembers that the guy is probably still in class now that he’s off taking early college courses. It’s not like they were close friends, anyway.

“You suck,” he murmurs at his computer, and slides to curser over to close Skype. A message alert sounds at the exact moment he clicks it closed, and it takes a solid minute of cursing for him to get it back again. “Come on come on come oooonokay, now who the hell…?”

No way.

Stiles pushes away from the desk, and brings a shaking hand up to his mouth. Because there’s no fucking way Derek Hale is sending him a message on Skype, not forever-and-a-fucking-day later. Not after all the unanswered texts and voice messages he left when stuff got weirdbad and he had so many questions and maybe a just needed to hear Derek’s voice a little bit.

Stiles darts forward again, opening the message with every intention of starting this conversation with the word 'bastard’ somewhere in it. But, the words on his screen give him pause.

  
D.Hale: _I need your help_.

Stiles gnaws on his lip, fingers hovering over the keys. It could be your everyday research thing, the type of stuff Derek usually appeared in his room for. Then again, why now, and why him? Sure, Stiles is the Google Master, and now owns maybe twenty first addition books on supernatural stuff, but Derek was no stranger to being a research junky, himself. So, why is he coming to Stiles… unless this is about something else. Ooooor, maybe Derek actually wants to talk to him? It looks like the word 'bastard’ is going to have to wait.

Stale-Link-Sees: _Hello to you too, glad to see you haven’t grown any manners since I last saw you. What’s up?_

D.Hale: _Do you still have the Argent Grimoire?_

Ok, maybe it is just research related. Stiles is tempted to tell him where to shove it, but… Derek. Actually asking for help. After months of nothing.

He checks for the grimoire. He doesn’t have it.

_Uuuuuuuuuuh not on hand. Lydia has it. Sry. I know it pretty much by heart so try me._

D.Hale: _I can message her_.

Stiles scowls, and jabs his fingers into the keys.

_She’s busy. Pack meeting. Just ask me your stupid question._

Stiles waits, feeling like a coiled spring ready to explode through the screen and smack Derek in his stupid werewolf face. He’s taking forever—he better not be sending her a message oh my god Stiles will rip that man’s hair out. If he… knew where Derek is.

_Where are you?_

D.Hale: _Boston._ That was easy. _Why aren’t you in the pack meeting?_

Nope, he’s not answering that.

_Why Boston? Baked beans? Wait, are you a secret Red Socks fan?_

D.Hale: _Tracked some info down on Desert Wolf a few months ago, but found something else and stayed. Why aren’t you at the meeting, Stiles?_

Damn, you can’t keep anything from this guy. Stiles pulls his hands away from the keys, afraid of the temptation. A huge, pathetic part of him wants to spill the beans, to pour every ounce of hurt and abandonment out to Derek because he would get it. Derek would understand, Stiles knows this.

But he also knows that Derek doesn’t owe him shit. They’ve settled their debts, and Derek’s been off living life for himself for years now. Okay, well, more like tracking down some evil person and spending time with his girlfriend who came back to Beacon Hills without him and didn’t say a word about Derek the entire time she was here. Which was… weird. Stiles even tried to ask, once, and received the weirdest glare he’s ever received. Like, a sad glare.

So, he’s been sort of quietly wondering what the fuck Derek Hale has been up to, while trying to pretend that he’s not too full of holes to function as a member of the pack. Apparently, his acting skills need a refresher.

D.Hale: _Stiles_.

He can actually hear Derek’s sigh, and that’s enough of that.

 _Stop worrying about me and ask your question already_ ,“ he types, secretly proud of his self control. _You said you needed help, and we all know how hard it is for you to admit that. Or when you’re lost. Or when you’re wrong. I could go on._

D.Hale: _Don’t_.

_So ask._

D.Hale: _What do you know about dead things in the water?_

Ooookay, that’s a weirdly specific but unspecific question. Stiles is pretty sure Derek isn’t taking about dead bodies, like, floating in the water. But he’s also not 100% sure Derek’s _not_ talking about that so he’s going to have to push for more information and hope that Derek doesn’t get impatient. Like he usually does.

_Dead 'things’? Not very helpful, Derek. You can do better than that._

Okay, so maybe he’s antagonizing him a tiny bit, but Stiles has earned it for being nice and not calling him a bastard. Yet.

D.Hale: _I mean weird dead smelling creatures that come out of the water and kill people._

"Why does that sound familiar?” Stiles wonders out loud. Because he was just looking through water demons and other creatures when they got some reports of people going missing by the river a few months ago. It turned out to be your average lunatic human kidnapping people, but Stiles learned a lot about water entities all the same.

_Alright, my turn. Does it come on to land to kill people? Does it drag them into the water? Do they appear drowned? Are they all people connected to one another? Are they just kids?_

God, he hopes it’s not kids.

_Have you seen it? Does it change form? Does it look like a woman or a horse? Actually, you know what, it’s probably a Kelpie._

Derek goes silent for a long time—long enough for Stiles to worry that the conversation’s already over, and he won’t even get a 'goodbye’. Long enough for his leg to start twitching and his chest to hurt.

D.Hale: _Aren’t those in Ireland?_

Stiles snorts, but he’s relieved.

_Dude, you’re in BOSTON. It’s probably the most Irish populated city in America next to idk. New York?_

He watches as Derek types, stops typing, starts again, and basically drives him insane for a solid three minutes before words finally show up on his screen.

D.Hale: _Why aren’t you at the pack meeting?_

Stiles lets out a breath that hurts. If he says anything, his holes will show and every semblance of control he has will vanish. He can’t. He can’t do it to Derek, no matter how much he wants to. No matter how much he probably needs to.

Instead, he puts on a fake smile to get himself in the fake mood, and starts cheerfully typing up a whole bunch of stuff about school, and new pack members Derek probably doesn’t know about, and the gang of omegas and their weird pet things, and _did you know that people really can be skinned alive if you do it properly? Wait, have you had first hand experience with this?_

Derek, surprisingly, goes along with it and they go back and forth pretending like everything is fine. He doesn’t ask him about the meeting again.

It’s not until 5AM, when Stiles signs off, that he realizes that it’s the first time someone’s given him the space he actually wants. He goes to bed feeling a little lighter.

 

* * *

 

 

_I know you’re going to think this is about you, especially with the way we left things, but I want you to know that this time, it’s really not._

_Scott, listen to me._

 

* * *

 

  
Things get weird, after their fight. The worst part, though, is that Stiles _lets_ it get weird, and doesn’t bother to try to fix anything and everything. Not this time. Scott remains angry, justified and angry because that’s just how he is. And Stiles, well, he’s angry too.

Because it’s not just being kept out of a fight, it’s not being left out from pack meetings, it’s not the fact that they came up with an alert system to bypass him completely, it’s not that they let Lydia go to a fight and not him, it’s not that Mason seems to be filling the space he left, or that he’s painfully human too. It’s that regardless of all that, they couldn’t bother to find a way to fit him into their lives anymore. They didn’t make a space for him, after they pushed him out of the one he had before. And so what if he’s human—so what if he can get hurt? So fucking what if other people in the pack can look things up, make plans, and swing a baseball bat? He’s still a friend, he’s still capable. He still deserves a place.

Right?

No, not right. He’s been pushed out, cut off, presented with the gift of _space_ and time to 'heal’.

Time to heal, apparently, means weeks of nothing from his friends but worried glances, a single flash of Erica-blonde hair in his back yard, and a few well-meaning words from Kira.

Weeks of distant keeping-an-eye on him turn into a month.

 

* * *

 

 

Sourwolf: _Ever heard of a city of gold in Maine?_

Stiles: _Well I sure have now. Pls tell me u found it?_

Sourwolf: _I found a chocolate moose named Lenny._

Stiles: _Good enough. Break off an antler for me._

 

* * *

 

  
A month turns into two.

Things happen. Stiles knows that the pack is busy fighting stuff, and that his dad gets called in for cleanup. He knows it’s Erica and Boyd who keep leaving the flowers and Tupperware boxes of cookies on his porch. He doesn’t expect to see Issac dropping the gift off one day, and when the hell did he get back in town, anyway? But Stiles doesn’t get to find out before he’s gone again.

He finds out that Derek got all his messages, but every time he was about to respond with help, they’d already fixed the problem. It’s kind of embarrassing, because Stiles remembers a few of those messages being whiny and sounding a lot like 'I miss you,’ but Derek doesn’t comment on their content. Just that there seemed to be a lot of them. Like he’s worried. Like it’s okay for Stiles to miss him.

Stiles also knows that Scott gets dumped when his friend starts moping around the classroom, shooting sad looks in his direction. Kira comes to say goodbye before she leaves, and it’s the first time he’s been hugged in, like, forever. She apologizes for things she’s not responsible for, and actually listens to him when he tells her to stop that. She’s not a bad person, none of them are. They’re just bad at this.

Scott stops looking at him when Stiles doesn’t come over to comfort him the twentieth time he pouts, and that’s just fine.

The sheriff gets re-elected, and Stiles makes his dad a pretty impressive cake to celebrate the occasion. He even sends a picture to Derek to brag a little bit.

Only, his dad comes home late because they had a party at the station that he forgot to tell Stiles about. His dad feels bad, genuinely bad, but Stiles just smiles and waves him off. It hurts, but he finally wraps his head around the fact that his dad had a life outside of being a dad. It’s no problem, it’s actually one of the few things that’s okay.

People in Beacon Hills die. Stiles wonders what’s doing all the murdering—even if he’s no longer pack—and maybe pokes his nose into a few mysteries of his own. Derek likes to help him figure them out just as much as Stiles likes to help with his supernatural problems. Scott yells at him when he finds out that Stiles is still out there, doing the same thing he did when he was a part of the pack. The same thing he’s been doing since Scott got bitten. You know, helping people.

He yells back about not needing Scott’s permission.

The gifts of cookies stop, like some kind of punishment. He’s doesn’t mind, it’s okay. Boyd and Erica never really liked him, anyway.

And none of it is the same—it will never be the same, but it’s better than nothing. It’s okay.

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles: _I just saw Lydia pick her nose when no1 was looking._

MountainWolf: _Why were YOU looking?_

Stiles: _Bored._

_I wonder if I say hi to her if she’ll pretend she didn’t just have a finger all the way up there._

_Or if she’ll even acknowledge me._

MountainWolf: _Stiles…_

Stiles: _Have u found any trolls yet?_

 

* * *

 

On his last day in Beacon Hills, Stiles spends twenty minutes re-organizing his books in his locker instead of taking them out like he’s supposed to. It’s the end, the last day before graduation that Stiles doesn’t even want to go to. Sure, his dad will be there, but he’s going to be sitting with Scott’s mom, cheering for them both—for all of them—and Stiles is selfish. He wants to be cheered for as his own entity. He wants his dad to be proud of him, just him. Scott has enough people feeling proud of him.

There’s an itch under his skin that he just can’t… he can’t fix it and the damn history book is too wide to fit alongside all the other books no matter what he does and he can't—he _can’t fucking stand it!_

The books go flying.

“Fucking—” Stiles snarls and kicks them as hard as he can. “Fuck!”

“What’s wrong?”

It’s so stupid, but Scott’s voice is somehow a relief when everything feels like exploding. It’s like… it’s like that’s all he really needed to hear right now, Scott asking if he’s okay. Like he used to, sometimes, before the Space.

Stiles looks up from pile of books and papers around his feet, and finds his old friend picking up the abused history book from halfway down the hallway. He’s not sheepish or apologetic for anything that’s happened between them, he’s just there, picking up his book and handing it over. It’s a strange relief that Scott does bother pretending.

“Are you okay?” He asks, and means it.

“No,” Stiles answers, and means it.

“When did you get so anal about your books?”

“Sometime after you stopped noticing what I said or did.”

Scott’s expression shifts, obviously surprised as his honesty. “Stiles, it’s not like that.”

Stiles takes the book, and shoves it into his locker. Fuck organization, he’s never had any control over his life. It’s the end, anyway.

It’s the _end_.

“It’s exactly like that, Scott,” he says, “and you know it.”

“I was just trying to protect you, to keep you from ending up in the hospital over and over again. You were the one who decided to cut us off completely.”

And doesn’t that rankle, even if it’s partially true. Sure, he didn’t beg to be allowed a role in their lives, but he shouldn’t fucking _have_ to in the first place.

He won’t say it. He’s better than that, he thinks. He’s grown up, gotten smarter, grown quieter.

So he just says, “ok,” and shuts his locker. The books can stay, he doesn’t need them anymore.

“You can come back whenever you want, Stiles,” Scott insists, and he probably thinks he means it. “Whenever you think you’re ready.”

Stiles turns back to his friend, and really looks at him. He’s taller, more muscular. There’s more confidence in his stance, and a little more sharpness around his eyes. He’s also grown up, and two months ago, Stiles would have accepted his offer no matter how angry and hurt he was.

Today, Stiles smiles when he tells him, “I’m not ready,” and leaves knowing that Scott heard the truth in his words.

 

* * *

 

Two hours later his bags are packed, there’s a note for his dad that reminds him that he’ll check in regularly, and Derek answers his phone on the first ring.

“What’s wrong?”

Stiles takes a deep breath.

 

“I need your help.”

 

* * *

 

_Remember when all of this started, Scott?_

_Dude, you wouldn’t even believe me when I told you what I thought you were after the bite. Like, why would I make up that you’re a werewolf? That’s so weird. And you got all mad and weird about it like I was lying to amuse myself or something? Like I was making it about myself instead of you._

_The thing is, that wasn’t the first or the last time you did that. You got weird and mad about me helping Derek try to find Erica and Boyd when you weren’t around. You got weird and angry when I tried to tell you that maybe my experience in the ice bath ended a little differently than your’s and Allison’s. You got weird and angry when I was weird and angry about being possessed and made to murder people. You got weird and angry when you decided to trust Theo’s word over mine, and you suddenly decided that I was capable of cold-blooded murder._

_It’s not something you do to be mean or whatever, but it took me a long time to figure out what the problem was._

_You don’t trust me, Scott._

_And it doesn’t matter what I’ve gone through, what I’ve done for you and the pack, you will never ever trust me. You couldn’t even trust me to make my own choices and decide whether I could stay and fight with you, or if I needed 'space’._

_And maybe I didn’t fight back very hard when you cut me out or whatever, but that doesn’t mean it was right or that you’re allowed to make my decisions for me. No one’s allowed to make those for me, not even my dad. I’ll accept suggestions, because that’s what you do when you care and trust the people around you, instead of trying to control them. But no one controls my life but me._

_So yeah, me leaving isn’t about you. It’s about me getting the space I actually want and need. This time, i’m taking care of myself._

_And for once you’re just going to have to trust that I made the right choice._

_Always a friend,_

_Stiles_

 

* * *

 

  
Stiles watches as his breath turns into fog in front of him, and turns away from the water to the space beside him. Derek’s been looking him this whole time, he could feel his gaze burning into the side of his head. There’s a hundred unasked questions in his eyes, and a worried frown on his lips.

But instead of asking, he ordered Stiles a ticket, picked him up at the airport, let him sleep in his bed, bought him coffee in the morning, and brought him here.

To the ocean.

Because Stiles mentioned, once, months ago, that he’d always wanted to see the Atlantic Ocean.

And Derek remembered.

“Thanks,” Stiles says, “for coming to get me.”

Derek’s frown lifts a lot more easily than it used to. Stiles notices that he’s grown a little, too. Derek looks good—healthy.

He says, “anytime,” and means it.

 

 

* * *

 

  
Stiles finds it really easy to lean over and kiss Derek after they kick and shove a hoard of gnomes off his college campus. It changes a few things between them, but like he said, it’s and easy change. He doesn’t have to fight for it.

And none of it is the same—it will never be the same, but it’s better.

It’s actually, really okay.

**Author's Note:**

> ** I'm adding this because people seem very confused or unhappy about Boyd and Erica being in Scott's pack, and about Stiles' dad. 
> 
> The thing is, they're not in Scott's pack. Stiles is too messed up, and too outside of things to understand what's going on. Yes, they go to the pack meetings, yes they help them out. They can't live in Beacon Hills and simply do nothing. No, they didn't go with Derek, because he didn't bring them with him after they abandoned him the first time. 
> 
> The Sheriff isn't a bad dad, just another symptom of Stiles' PTSD, and grave misinterpretation. Trust me, they'll be okay in the end.


End file.
